


Light 'Em Up

by wirewrappedlily



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Person of Interest (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape, Coercion, Gangster Squad AU, Lydia is an evil genius, Mayhem, Merlyn is a dick, Multi, Murder, My head hurts, Oliver is the lost Queen, bad idea, but mostly by choice this time, so I'll make your heart hurt, very bad idea, werewolves guarding gangsters, with access to firearms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wirewrappedlily/pseuds/wirewrappedlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver and Richard Queen were lost at sea at the beginning of the War, and Oliver Queen's been lost ever since. With a baby on the way, a town going to the rabid dogs, and an increasingly difficult disappearance to maintain, Oliver throws it all away to save his city; to take down Malcolm Merlyn, the head of the Undertaking, which runs all the drugs, whores, and crime in the town. Of course, Merlyn has werewolves as bodyguards and has taken Oliver's little sister hostage under the threat of their mother and stepfather sharing the same fate Richard and Oliver supposedly did. To top it off, Stiles Stilinski, the younger and far more disenfranchised detective Oliver needs to drag in with him has fallen (if you can call it that) for Derek Hale, the most vicious and volatile wolf at Merlyn's disposal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This World Is Gonna Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there will probably be character death to follow the Gangster Squad canon. Maybe. I don't know yet.

Oliver Queen had been though Hell and had come back swinging. He'd left a stupid kid, and a war that should never have been made him into something else entirely. 

He didn't know how he'd gotten lucky enough to convince Felicity Smoak, the feisty, brilliant blond he'd pulled out of a burning building, to marry him. It might have been that she married him to spite him for claiming she never would; he didn't care. She was pregnant with their child; just as strong and troublesome as ever, only agreeing to keep herself safe if he did the same for her. He loved her more than he could say. Loved her pinning look and the tilt of her mouth when she didn't want to laugh at him. 

She was what had pulled him back from the war; what had healed him. She'd surprised him at every turn, in every way he could be surprised. She had a gift with information and gleaning it--she joked it was being Jewish that brought that, her mother the town gossip and more reliable than anyone--and she wasn't fearless, but she would push through her fear no matter how badly it could paralyse her. And she trusted him. Damaged, broken, lost him. He didn't deserve it; he had no idea how he'd gotten it, having lied to her from the start about who he was and why he was there, that he was meant to kill everyone in the building he'd pulled her out of, and he didn't know why his instincts had made him save her life. He hadn't known she was a Jewish girl until Christmas came around in the explosions and blood: that she'd been captured and taken into custody for the very reason he'd ultimately decided to keep her around. She'd laughed in his face the first time she'd gotten hurt helping him, when he told her he would find a way to get her to safety. The safest place for her was with him, she told him; she'd be dead if not for him. 

Movement stirred Oliver out of his musings, the rat he was chasing closing in on a pretty, blond piece of cheese that would remind him of Felicity if she was smart enough to tell the bastard to shove off. He stiffened, glancing at the cop riding with him, that he was loathe to call his partner. 

"Son of a bitch doesn't waste a minute, does he?" Oliver grumbled. 

Following them to the hotel was cake--until Matheson told him in no uncertain terms that this place was owned by the Undertaking; untouchable to any cop, because they were all under Malcolm Merlyn's thumb. 

"I don't want any part of this!" Matheson yelled as Oliver loaded his gun. 

"Then go get an ice cream!" Oliver snapped back, climbing out of the car with a voice that sounded just like Felicity in the back of his head, telling him off for coming home smashed up yet again. 

Three guys were to escort him to their escort ring, filing into the elevator with him. All was good until they caught sight of his cuffs and realized he was a cop. In a confined space, Oliver was far less likely to be able to dodge the bullets, but he was also far more likely to incapacitate the men flanking him. He moved like he was back in the jungle, the dim light of the dingy motel and the flashing levels of the rising elevator helping him disorient his prey. Unfortunately, losing his gun meant he was going to have to do something probably very stupid in order to get through the door after that pretty little blond. He could almost hear Felicity mocking him as he wished for his bow, carried all the way home with him from the war. 

He could hear the girl screaming, thankfully, so there was no indecision about which door she was hidden behind. He knocked politely, then kicked it open hard enough to nearly tear it off its hinges once the rat bastard was standing behind it. 

He came in with his fingers in his jacket like a gun, seeing the guns on the poker table, and coming to the conclusion that it meant all the bastard had was a knife, and his flunkies their fists. 

Those odds, he could work with. 

He was closer to the table than they were, and when they dared him to shoot them, he simply swept the table up and used it as a blunt weapon, the flurry of violence shortening his movements to cobra strikes, and his breath in his ears and his body moving without his mind, busy calculating where they could have stashed the girl. 

He smashed the face of one of the flunkies until he finally fell, and Oliver was left panting in the middle of the room, bleeding from a scratch to his forehead and his knuckles, a nasty bruise forming on his shoulder and blood that wasn't his staining his shirt. "HELP ME!" the girl screamed, Oliver's attention snapping to the bed-in-the-wall, pulling it out and holding up his badge. 

"Welcome to Starling City, ma'am." 

He got reamed for encroaching on Malcolm Merlyn's turf, of course. He'd been expecting that. What got him riled was that the bastards he'd arrested had walked before he'd even gotten them to booking. He prepared himself for Felicity as he pulled into the little gravel driveway of their little suburban house, wondering what it would be like to take his life as the lost son of the Queen family back; what it would be like to be rich, if Felicity would be happier. 

He knew the answer to that when he walked in; Felicity would be happier if he'd picked a job that didn't involve him being beaten or shot at, it wouldn't matter to her if they were rich and he was still coming home looking like this. 

She leaned forward in her seat, scowling, "I didn't ask for it." 

"You promised me, Oliver. You stood right there, where you're standing now, and you promised me." 

"I didn't go looking for it." He tried again. She sighed as she managed to stand, padding over to him to touch his cheek, taking stock of his injuries.

"You go looking for it every time you leave the house." She sighed, put-upon and resigned. She helped him undress, tsking quietly as she looked him over and drew him a bath. "What happened this time?" 

"Just...some pimp. Going to give a girl who didn't know any better a bad time." 

She leaned her chin on her arm against the lip of the tub, drawing the washcloth over his shoulder. She was quiet as she took care of him, smiling when he caught her eye finally. "I don't mind living tight, Oliver; I don't need a new pair of shoes every week, I married an honest cop. You're kind, you don't talk too much, you're a demon in the sack, but I don't need a hero, Oliver, I need a husband. You do not have permission to go belly-flopping a grenade--not when we're expecting company. You read me?" 

"Yeah." He murmured, reaching up and pulling her into a kiss. He sat up in the water, reaching over the side and scooping her, fully clothed, into the tub with him. She squealed into his mouth, splashing at him and laughing as she settled back against his chest, between his legs, letting him wrap around her and hold her, big hands on her belly as the baby kicked.


	2. I Sure Would Like Some Sweet Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I totally managed to get you two chapters in two days. Treasure it, because my lazy ass is legendary for its laziness. Enjoy, darlings.

Detective Stiles Stilinski walked through the dark streets of the town that had pulled him away from his mother's ghost in the small town he grew up in, his hat low and his mouth pulled into a small smirk.

In front of him, Scott McCall, the kid he'd once saved from three pushers wanting to break his nose, was calling to give people a shoe shine, and Stiles shook his head at the kid being out after dark.

"Hey, Scotty, you want a shin _er_? Go home, kid, I told you when it gets dark out to go home." Stiles called.

"C'mon, Stiles, I need to make just one more buck before I go in tonight." Scott whined, the little shit.

Stiles knew Scott wouldn't be going home if he gave him a buck, but he did it anyway, soothing some obscure part of his genetic make-up by being good to the kid. "Hey, doll." He purred as he pushed between the bouncers of Slapsy Maxie's with a flash of his badge in the top of his hat. He took the badge out, setting the hat crookedly on the cigarette girl's head as she grinned back and greeted him silkily, letting him take a pack.

Cigarettes had probably been what killed his mother; but it never hurt to have them.

He walked into the club to the dulcett sounds of the singer of the week, thinking back to Queen walking in with those three bums from the Undertaking. "Fancy seein' you here, Jackson!" He called out as he spotted the very man he was supposed to have arrested today.

Jackson and he had an odd relationship, but it wasn't the enmity they'd known when they were kids. "Fancy that, Stiles. Pull up a pew."

"Yes, sir." Stiles tossed himself across from the blond-haired, blue-eyed 'businessman' of a bookie.

"There's a prime rib back there with your name on it." Jackson told him, sitting back down to his own meal.

"You're a peach." Stiles told him, half-teasing and half-grateful.

"Figure you must be starvin'. You haven't picked a winner in, what? Six weeks?"

"Five." Stiles corrected, shrugging as he took in the club carefully.

"Still. You know that my boss fixed the damn races, Stilinski, all you gotta do is ask me."

"You're not supposed to tell me that." Stiles threw off, "I got a warrant for your arrest in my pocket, want me to pull it out and read it to you?"

"What for this time?" Jackson asked uncomfortably.

"Usery."

"What the hell is usery?"

"Loan-sharking, you dumbass."

"Keep it in your pants, Stiles." Jackson snorted, "And listen up; Merlyn's on the war path."

Stiles looked over to the table, taking in the collection of old gasbags around the table--and the small, young woman wiping her lipstick off of Merlyn's smirking mouth. "Looks like he's on the 'gimme-some-more' path."

"Just watch the top players, Stiles." Jackson warned darkly.

Stiles turned, smirking slightly, "Hard to know the players without the playbill, Jackson."

Jackson heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes. This was their relationship; equal parts banter and watching each others' backs. Jackson gave Stiles more information than the damn Yellow Pages. "Up top we have the killer, Derek Hale," Stiles glanced over Merlyn's shoulder, to the hulking, scowling figure in a black suit behind him. Derek was tall and dark, some instinct knitting Stiles's brows as he looked at him. Derek's hazel eyes found him across the crowded restaurant as if pulled just by Stiles looking, "Down, we have Peter Hale, Derek's uncle, who provides muscle to back Merlyn; the not-so-honourable Judge Carter; Duke Richards, the High Sheriff; then Matthew Mackenzie, Merlyn's lawyer; and, of course, Ike Reynolds, my boss." Peter Hale had joined his nephew in staring at Stiles, and gooseflesh ran up Stiles's arms.

"The Hales are wolves, aren't they?" Stiles mumbled, too low for even Jackson to hear, and watched as Peter smiled slowly in confirmation.

Stiles cleared his throat, eyes returning to the woman at the table, "Who's the dame?"

"Thea Queen. Word on the street is that Merlyn's orchestrated this...merger with the Queen family; if Thea doesn't run with him, he'll kill what little is left."

"Walter and Moira Queen are letting him do that?"

"They can't say no."

Stiles pursed his lips, knowing his friend's eyes were lingering on Thea for a whole other reason than his had been. He thought of Oliver, of what he'd dug up when Oliver first put seven guys into a hospital on his own. The lost son of the Queen family, in Starling City, refusing to return the rest of the way home to his silver spoon and cushy life. He was a damn hero, but his family probably needed him. "Jackson, penalty for poaching the king's dear is death."

Jackson turned his blue eyes on Stiles as Thea broke away from Merlyn, walking over to the bar for a cigarette. "Gotta die of something." He murmured, and Stiles watched, but neither wolf informed Merlyn that Jackson was about to try to woo the prettiest girl in the club. Stiles found him self shooting off a quirk of his lips in gratitude when Peter met his eye again, and Peter merely nodded over his wine.

By the time Stiles turned back to his meal, Derek Hale had made his way across the club to sit in Jackson's vacated seat, nearly making Stiles fall out of his chair in surprise.

"If you're here to threaten Jackson, he's the idiot over there; and I am not his message boy."

"No, you're a cop with a weird name."

"Stiles is a nickname; my given name is weirder and even more painful." He shot off, pulling out a cigarette. Derek glanced down at it, then up at him, his eyes a strange mix of colours.

"You don't smoke." Derek told him softly.

Stiles's long, thin hands stuttered in their fidgeting, his eyes going wide as he looked up to Derek, "No...No, I don't. How'd you know that?"

"You don't smell like a smoker. You smell like smoke, don't get me wrong, but everyone does. You smell too...clean...to be a smoker."

"Do you smoke, then?" Stiles asked, offering. He was riding his way through the loop-de-loop of more information than he'd gotten in a long time, a little taken aback by this tank of a man.

"Not anymore."

"You used to? What changed?"

Derek's eyes met Stiles's directly, and Stiles felt like he weighed a thousand pounds and he'd been thrown into the Patomic. "Smoking helps dilute the smells of the world. I need to be sharp."

"Right, because you have to threaten scary men like Jackson Whittemore.

"I don't care about Jackson Whittemore. We work for Merlyn; we don't owe allegiance to him beyond what he's coerced out of us."

"Coerced?" 

"My sister...Cora. Merlyn's had her since the Argent family tried to burn us all to the ground." Stiles's breath caught in his throat, remembering that from his very own small town. 

"The Hales...you're from Beacon Hills." 

"And you're the sheriff's only son." Derek replied simply, still staring like he was looking through what everyone else could see. "You're not a bad cop--"

"Just a cop who knows the value of information." Stiles retorted. 

"Then let me give you some advice: stay away from me." Derek told him, and Stiles's instinct piqued, something stirring in him. 

"No." He replied. "You don't scare me...okay, maybe you do, but I don't care. You want me to stay away; I'll become your shadow." 

"If I tell you why I want you to stay away, will you do it?" Derek asked, changing tacts from scaring him to bartering in Stiles's favourite currency so fast Stiles had to feel the whiplash for a long moment. 

"Don't know yet." Stiles replied, outwardly at ease, though a knot had formed in his stomach and he could feel his heart pounding. 

"You're pulled to me." Derek told him, "Just like I am to you. Werewolves...have mates." 

Stiles's eyebrow flew up, a slow smirk spreading over his mouth, "Then you and I should really talk about this more. How about over a pillow?" Derek looked like he was about to commit an act of extreme violence. Stiles only smiled wider.


	3. With Hammer and Nail

Jackson flicked his lighter open for Thea as she leaned against the bar, looking a little lost in thought as she dug for her own. 

"Hey, there, handsome. Thanks." She purred, taking a long pull from the cigarette and blowing out the smoke as he flicked the lighter closed again. "Bet you have a ducky war story to go with that lighter."

"Sure," he replied, leaning against the bar beside her as he beckoned for a drink, "I got stories. One time, I was shot down over the ocean, holding onto the wing of the plane while sharks bumped my legs in the dark. Weak in the knees yet?" 

"Sure." She replied sarcastically, her red mouth pulling up on one side. She glanced back at the table, the smiled sliding off her mouth, "You gonna take me away from all this and make an honest woman out of me?" She challenged, as if that wasn't what she wanted. 

"No, ma'am. I just want to take you to bed." She looked up at him, pleasantly surprised, and he smiled down at her. They slipped out of the back before anyone would notice, and Jackson knew he was a dead man.

Thea laughed as they jogged down the alley with her hand in his, her tumble of hair flying in the night wind. Jackson stopped short, though, drawing Thea behind him as three hulking figures closed off the mouth of the alley. "Oh, look, if it isn't Reynolds' little errand boy." One of them hissed, and Jackson knew they were Merlyn's men. The middle one shifted, looking over Jackson's shoulder to the cowering Thea, and Jackson straightened his back even further, "Shame. You were pretty, sweetheart." 

"Not your sweetheart, princess." Jackson bit off, ducking under a left hook and weaving forward to knee the advancing thug in the gut, snapping his leg further out and knocking the gun from a second one's hand. Thea cried out, falling back away from the brawl as Jackson leapt over the doubled-over thug to knee his buddy in the nose and twist the third's arm until it was dislocated, using him as a shield as the first recovered enough to grab the gun and fire at him. 

There were two more, unexpected shots from back down the alley, at the back entrance of the club, and Peter Hale straightened his cuffs as he slunk out, followed by an irate Malcolm Merlyn. 

That it was the two remaining thugs dropping and not Thea and Jackson made Jackson sick to his stomach with relief. "Malcolm!" Thea cried out, tears smearing her cheeks with mascara, "These two came out of nowhere, I just wanted some quiet, and they attacked me, Malcolm. If Mr. Reynolds' man hadn't shown up, I'd be dead, Malcolm." 

She was a surprisingly convincing liar, Malcolm meeting Jackson's eyes as he pulled her into his arms, empty blue eyes calculating. "Mr. Whittemore, right?" 

"Yes, sir." Jackson panted, ready to be shot more than praised. 

"You've saved my girl, and for that I'm grateful. Peter, see to it he makes it home alright; I'll finish my business with Ike and inform him of what happened." 

"Thank you, sir." Jackson croaked, trying not to stare at Thea as she was pulled along with Malcolm, her eyes still on Jackson. 

Peter pulled closer, taking Jackson's arm in a vice-grip, and bile rose as Jackson's heart hardened around the idea that he was about to die. "Calm down, you reek of fear." Peter hissed. Jackson flinched in his hold, turning questioning eyes on him, "I'm not going to kill you, Mr. Merlyn's given you a free pass from us burning your organization to the ground. I suggest you go home, look for work, and wait for a knock on your door." 

"A-A knock?" 

"Yes. Malcolm's a busy man, and Ms. Queen's better off with her saviour than going against his orders and racing cars she's going to crash. And, no, he doesn't and won't know; a gratitude visit seems in order." Peter maneouvered Jackson into his own car, bending down. "Now thank me, and drive away." 

"Th-Thank you." Jackson stammered, more shaken than he'd been breaking men's knuckles in their own kitchen drawers. 

He started the car in a daze, and was gone before he could wrap his head around anything but going home with his life.


	4. There's No Going Back Now

_He'd burn it all to the ground; the motel that had lost him a fresh crop of cunt and, now, three men who had been idiot enough to let it get lost._

_The cop who did it was a goddamn hero--he hated heroes. They were never there until the bad things had happened to the bad guys and made them bad._

Quentin Lance had seen his fair share in the world, but nothing was a better surprise than the Undertaking pussy motel being burnt to the ground because of one goddamn cop. 

He was almost happy until he saw the bastard's picture, until he summoned him from the precinct and Oliver Queen walked through his door. 

"The prodigal son returns." Lance ground out once the door to his office had closed behind Queen. "You've been here the whole goddamn time. My daughter killed herself because she thought you were dead." Lance snapped at him. 

"Laurel--" 

"Sarah! Laurel just went through losing the man she thought she'd marry and her baby sister, who was who he was apparently cheating on her with!" Lance thundered. 

"Sir--" 

"You were no fucking hero, Queen, you never were, and you still aren't, but you're the only one who I think can save this town." 

Oliver's mouth snapped closed, swallowing as he blinked slowly at the commissioner. "Excuse me, sir?" 

"You're the reason Merlyn's been set back in whores, Queen, and you're trained in guerilla warfare. You don't give a shit about anyone, and you won't discriminate for Merlyn. So, right here, right now; I am giving you a black op, just like the ones that have been redacted from this file. You're going to root out Merlyn's every every thread in this city, and you're going to burn the whole damn thing to ash around him." 

"I'll need men, sir." 

"Then get them, and keep it damn quiet. I will hunt you if I have to, Queen. Do you understand me?" 

Oliver swallowed slowly, nodding jerkily. Taking Lance's silence as a dismissal, he turned for the door, things churning in his chest with the reminder of Laurel, with the thought of Sarah. 

"Queen. I don't know why you abandoned your family. I don't care. You did; and for that, in my eyes, you will never, ever be a hero, no matter how many Purple Hearts they give you." 

Oliver straightened his back, but didn't turn, opening the door and striding away from the gargoyle of a man who had only gotten worse from the time he'd known him. 

Felicity was going to flip.

He got home with a mountain of personnel files in his arms, Felicity ignoring him as he told her not to take any, taking half and setting them at the kitchen table with confusion furrowing her brow, "Oliver, what's happened?" She asked quietly, in the way she rarely spoke to him, because her voice like this was small and scared, as she had been when he'd told her to trust him, that he would get her out of the fire reaching for her. 

She looked up at him, and he stepped into her side, his hands soft on her cheeks as he kissed her, reassuring and warm. "It's okay, Fee. I...I need you to get some information for me." He told her in a wrecked voice, leaning into her scent of roses and coffee. "A woman...named Laurel Lance." 

"She...she was your girl, before the war." Felicity didn't ask, and he opened his eyes to make her confess how she could know that. "You talk in your sleep, baby, especially when it's bad." She told him softly, cupping his cheek, "You used to dream about her a lot." 

He wrapped one arm around her, kissing her full and deep because she was his and he loved her, "I've been given an order directly from the commissioner, Fee." 

"Quentin Lance...Father?" He nodded. 

"He wants me to create a small unit, and...go after Malcolm Merlyn." 

Felicity's small, swollen form changed in his arms, stiffening and withdrawing. She was furious, just as he knew she'd be. 

She left him standing in the dining room, only to smash something in the kitchen and have him come running. "Felicity--" 

"No, Oliver." She snapped, tears in her voice and threatening in her eyes, "When we came out here, you said this was paradise. I don't ask you about before, because you've never wanted to tell me, and I don't care, but we have a baby coming..."

"Felicity, the only thing that got me through being over there was coming back to my town! But this isn't my town, and you can't expect me to just hand it over to Malcolm Merlyn on a silver platter!" 

"HE CAN HAVE THE WHOLE DAMN TOWN! Oliver, I don't care, he can have the whole damn town...he just can't have _you_." Tears fell down her cheeks as her voice deepened with anger, with sorrow. "He cannot have you." 

"Felicity," Oliver sighed, skirting the broken glass to be near her. 

"Come back to me, Oliver." She begged on a whisper. "You don't have to fight. The war is over." He drew into himself, the words pulling at him like he knew they should. They'd had a year on the East coast to just be together, to be normal people. And it made him writhe inside to know that being back in their shitty apartment in that dirty city would make her happier than this life he'd dreamt to give her, and was failing to. 

"I'm trying, Fee." He croaked finally, "You have to help me, please." He reached for her, and she came, her long hands curling on his shoulders painfully hard, her head buried in his neck. "I love you so damn much..." 

"I love you, too, you gigantic idiot." She sniffled. He smiled, feeling her come back to him, kissing her hair and breathing her in. "I love you." 

She followed him quietly when he released her, going to the small spare room beside theirs and watching as he unlocked it with a sigh of something close to relief. 

When he'd fought in the jungles of Asia, Felicity a 'stow-away' he wasn't supposed to bring with him, he'd fought in a green hood, camouflage, with a bow and quiver of arrows and the weapon he'd turned his body into, his future wife hiding up in the trees with a sniper rifle and a talent for saving his life. 

He'd said that he'd pulled her out of the first burning building, but she'd pulled him out of every one after that. 

When he turned to look at her with his bow back in his hand, she was gone from the door, and a hollow grew in his chest. 

She shut herself in the nursery, and he went to bed alone after five hours of looking through the files, even though without her he wouldn't sleep. 

When morning finally dawned, he dragged his suit on, mentally going over his choices from the night before, only to find her elbow-deep in his files at the dining table, his breakfast awaiting him beside her. "You're something else, you know that?" 

"I know." She answered distractedly. She looked up at him with a disappointed expression, pointing at his top choices from the night before. "Top of his class, top of his class, made detective before the age of thirty. If I'm Merlyn, these are the cops I'm gonna buy, Oliver. They'll be lieutenants in a couple years." 

"So, what, you're saying I should look for bums like me?" 

"I'm just saying you shouldn't be looking at choir boys for this." Felicity replied, reaching for another file and pulling it over to her. 

Oliver caught a glimpse of Stiles's picture and bit down a laugh at the thought of Stiles and Felicity meeting. "He's a lot like you, Fee." 

"Brilliant, charming, and heart-stoppingly beautiful, you mean?" 

"Talkative to all hell." 

She snorted, looking up at him and tossing his napkin in his laughing face, "I don't know why I put up with you." 

"Because you love me." Oliver answered simply, leaning forward and stealing a kiss with a smile. 

"And because you love me, you're going to go get...Detective Stilinski. How do you pronounce that?" She pointed to his first name, frowning deeply at it. 

"He doesn't even know. Goes by Stiles." 

Felicity shrugged with her eyebrows, and he laughed to himself that she was so expressive after all they'd been through. He took the file, reading it to see what was there he didn't know. His brows went up as he read over the profile of his refusal to collar a loanshark called Jackson Whittemore. "Exactly. Old friends. If I'm him; I'm using Jackson as an informant, even with the force after his neck." Oliver looked up at his wife with a grin, shaking his head. 

"You never cease to amaze." 

"You never cease to drag your busted ass home, I've gotta bring something to the table." She retorted, kissing his forehead as she got up with her mug for another cup of coffee. 

"I love you, Fee. I wouldn't be doing this for anyone else." 

"Please, Ollie. You'd be doing this for everyone else. Then again, if there was no me in your life, you wouldn't have survived this far, either."


	5. Blanket Me

Derek woke up sprawled across an unfamiliar bed with a brunette head bobbing in his lap painfully slowly. As wake up calls went, it was the best he'd ever had. 

Stiles's taste of sugar and excitement and gunpowder was still on his tongue as he groaned, reaching one hand down and tunnelling his fingers through Stiles's wavy morning hair, just to hold on to something. Stiles hummed his greeting, and Derek arched off the bed with a groan, his eyes fluttering shut, "Fuck...Stiles..." 

Stiles pulled off with a vulgar pop, looking up the length of him with playful amber eyes and a smile that would put Lucifer to shame. "Oh, finally. You're awake." He commented sardonically, kneeling up and crawling up Derek's body to kiss him, the taste of Derek on his tongue. Stiles reached down, gripping him, and Derek just had time to tense on a moan before Stiles was slipping him in the hot, tight circle of muscle, throwing his head back as he pushed down. "Been up for hours waiting for this." Stiles breathed, "Finally got impatient, and, well..." He cut off with a small whimper as he drew himself up just as slowly as he'd been sucking Derek, biting his lip as he sank back down. "God, you're pretty." He sighed, hands spreading over Derek's chest, his thumbs moving to tease Derek's nipples as he moved his hips again. 

"Stiles..." a choked moan was all Derek could get out before he was pushed into taking over by the dark light in Stiles's eyes and the torturous way he was riding him. Derek had Stiles's long limbs under him in a heartbeat, thrusting his dick in hard and fast so that Stiles would cry out to the ceiling and arch against the bed. Pleasure was fought down as Derek decided to take his own back, doubling Stiles under him to hook his legs over Derek's shoulders as he pounded into Stiles without mercy, watching him come undone the way he'd made Derek come undone, then more. Stiles's blunt nails dragged at Derek's shoulders, his cries bitten off as Derek pistoned into him unrelentingly. Stiles came with a spasm, his eyes rolling up, and Derek simply fucked him through it, and continued to fuck him as he went boneless and dazed beneath him. 

"Where the fuck have you been my whole miserable life?" Stiles panted, pushing against his thrusts and grabbing a handful of Derek's black hair as he crossed his ankles against Derek's back. Derek could smell the jolts of pain running through him, and the pleasure that was flooding in with it, burying his nose in Stiles's neck and breathing in deep. 

"God, I wish I knew." Derek groaned, lifting Stiles's hips and repositioning him. Stiles screamed as Derek pounded against his prostate, his cock thickening between them even though he was spent. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." Stiles breathed. "Derek, I can't..." He managed. 

"Yes, you can." Derek told him. He reached down and began teasing Stiles's cock, moving back enough to see, to watch as Stiles squirmed and writhed against him, his cock slowly getting hard again with nothing left to give. Derek reached his hand down and cupped his hand over Stiles's balls, then trailing one finger down, into the tightness surrounding his cock, and Stiles jolted like he'd been electrocuted, his body closing down around Derek too hard for him to come as Stiles's cock twitched, trying to have a release that wasn't there for it to give. 

Derek bit into his shoulder with blunt teeth, letting his legs down and pulling out when Stiles's body had loosened enough to let him. Derek fisted himself, rising up on his knees on either side of Stiles's heaving chest so that Stiles could wrap his mouth around him as he made himself coming, Stiles's long fingers trailing over his ass and dipping into his hole as he stared up at Derek with dark eyes. 

Stiles swallowed him down greedily, spent against the bed as Derek lowered himself down beside him. "If Merlyn finds out, he'll have us killed." Stiles murmured, voice wrecked. 

"He can try." Derek replied, kissing his loose lips over and over until Stiles stirred enough to climb into him, arms and legs wrapped around his body and chests pressed too tight to breathe. Derek kissed Stiles to sleep, extricating himself when he couldn't fall asleep himself, and padding to the balcony window of Stiles's bedroom. Sex filled all of Derek's senses, nailmarks prickling even though they'd already healed away; the bed an absolute wreck as Stiles purred in his sleep, his heart rate picking up and arousal scenting through him. Peter would know where he went; what he'd done. What they'd done. 

Derek immediately decided it'd be worth it to disappear with Stiles if anyone were sent after them. He thought of Cora with a pang, but as he climbed back into the bed and laid around Stiles, hugging him to his chest and laying a kiss at the curve of his neck, he knew his whole world had been flipped here, all because of one soft-lipped and big-eyed cop.

When Derek woke up again, long fingers were tracing over the tattoo on his back, lips pressing to his neck distractedly. Stirring, Derek heard the ruffle of paper behind him, Stiles pulling away from his front to look at him with a small smile. 

"What were you reading?" Derek questioned, dipping his head to nuzzle at a bite mark he'd left on Stiles's ribs. 

"Your police record." Stiles answered honestly. "I usually know more about someone before jumping into bed with them." 

Derek stiffened, his jaw working as he swallowed. He'd been accessory to a lot, he knew. A willing pawn, as it were. "And? Do you regret...jumping?" 

"No, but you may have fucked out my ability to regret my life choices." Stiles chirped. He licked his way into Derek's mouth and went when Derek's large, blunt hands pulled at him. 

Stiles kicked the file to the floor in an avalanche of paper, and Derek gripped his hair to keep him in the kiss until he was breathless. "How did you get the file?" 

"A friend dropped it off while he was asking a favour." 

"Oh?" 

"I had to turn him, down, though. I find myself with a reason to live right now." Derek was shocked he'd slept through so much, but he found himself at ease surrounded with Stiles's scent; their scent. 

"Your friend wants to take on Merlyn." Derek guessed. Stiles didn't reply, but he didn't need to, "Don't turn him down on my account." Derek kissed up Stiles's shoulder, nipping at his neck. "I'll do what I can to keep you safe." 

Stiles's hand ran through his hair, his mouth ducking to press to Derek's own. "You..." 

"I hate Merlyn, and I hate the life I lead because of him. I'm all-in with you, Stiles. That's how this works." 

Stiles kissed him again, climbing into his lap and running his hands through his hair, over his shoulders. "What about Cora?" 

"He won't give her back so long as we stay in line. Why would he?" 

Stiles hugged him tight, his nose in Derek's neck, "I'll find her, Derek, and when I do, I'll bring her back to you." 

Derek brought him up, kissing him hungrily and grinning for the first time in years. "Now you, I believe." 

They showered together, Stiles arching against the tile wall as Derek licked into him until he sobbed, neglecting to bring him over until Stiles begged him for it. He carried Stiles back into the bedroom when they were done, setting him down on possibly the only clean corner of the bed left and kneeling in front of him. 

"Tonight's the full moon. I won't be going to Merlyn's until day after tomorrow. Tonight I can't stay with you, but..." 

"Why not? You were born with it, and I'm your mate. You won't hurt me." 

"I'm more concerned with you being my mate, Stiles." He laughed. "I think last night and today had been down to that." 

"Not my unending sexual attraction?"

"That, too." Derek kissed the inside of Stiles's knee, smiling absently. 

Stiles shook his head fondly, pulling Derek up to kiss him. "I do not want to get dressed, but that bed needs to be burned before we get back into it." 

Derek helped him up and padded off to find his clothes. 

The moon was mostly risen when Derek experienced what it was like to have a mate in danger. He could hear the gunshots and the screaming like he was there; feel Stiles's fear and adrenaline. And then hot, searing rage that came with grief. Derek had broken out of his hidey-hole before Peter could even react, running over rooftops like a wolf to get to Stiles in front of Slapsy Maxie's. He heard the gunshot as Stiles killed someone with their own gun, and felt the power welling up in Stiles like he was going to burn the city to the ground. Derek leapt off the roof of the club, into the back alley and through the back entrance, sprinting through the kitchens with the sound of Stiles's thundering heart ringing in his ears. 

He saw it as Jackson Whittemore intercepted Stiles, pushing him out of the club with the gun shaking in his hand, and Derek quickly changed routes in his mind, pulling Stiles out of Jackson's grip as they made it back out to the street, pulling him into his arms. "There's something going down in Burbank." Jackson muttered quietly, "That's where you should be, Stilinski." 

Stiles choked, the gun clattering to the ground as he shook in Derek's restraining hold. 

He blinked, slowly coming back into himself, and he jerked out of Derek's hands, casting a long look at a kid lying dead in the street. A kid whose blood was on Stiles. 

"Stiles," Derek choked out, and he realized his claws and his fangs had run out. Stiles's blazing eyes met his, and Derek forced himself to stand under the look. "You have to go."


End file.
